Endless Debt Chapter 1122 - 124: Aftermath (2)

Bologue has recently been patrolling the perimeter of the Great Rift, actively seeking out potential dangers within, much like the elusive Wandering Crossroad.

The Wandering Crossroad eluded Bologue; the distorted cluster of structures vanished like a fleeting dream as the fog dissipated, and the malevolent aura of the Devil receded with it.

Mammon appears to have departed this location, yet his influence has permeated the land as if it were an indelible mark. Even now, as Bologue gazes down, he can still perceive phantom voices echoing nonsensically in his ears.

The Great Rift emanates a potent, unholy energy, a black luminescence that flickers with an unsettling uncertainty, shrouded in profound darkness throughout day and night. This shimmering light seems to bleed from the Abyss itself, with unseen eyes lurking within the Stygian depths.

"It remains uncertain whether these transformations are ultimately beneficial or detrimental," Palmer mused aloud.

Previously, the oppressive fog obscured the perception of mortals. Now, its absence allows an unobstructed view of the Great Rift's full magnitude, and an palpable sense of power surges from the Abyss's core.

This phenomenon could be the residual energy of the Devil, or perhaps, originating from far below, it's the unleashed pressure of this world's Calamity.

"Only time will reveal the truth," Bologue could only offer in response.

During this period, Bologue diligently perused the daily newspapers. Beyond the usual disaster reports, numerous accounts detailed citizens experiencing increasingly vivid nightmares, akin to a shared delusion. The volume of such similar reports continued to mount.

Many people recount how, during twilight hours, under the dim glow of artificial lights, the darkness within the Great Rift appears to awaken. It's described as dry, black tendrils reaching out, attempting to ensnare unsuspecting pedestrians. As one ventures closer, hoarse whispers and arcane incantations can be heard, instilling widespread panic.

Some have succumbed to a fervent belief that the Great Rift is not merely a geological anomaly but a nexus of delirium and absolute evil, drawing souls intrigued by its forbidden mysteries. Amidst this terrifying ambiance, hidden treasures and ancient secrets are said to lie in wait.

Within this strange and perilous domain, those who tenaciously cling to survival may find themselves ensnared by the Abyss's power, entering an inescapable realm of utter madness...

These testimonies, subsequently distorted by the Field Operations Department, are publicly dismissed as mere hallucinations stemming from collective post-disaster anxiety, and their voices are quickly silenced.

Yet, Bologue is acutely aware that this is simply the perpetuation of a deliberate falsehood.

"As the concentration of Ether continues its upward trajectory, such calamitous events will inevitably escalate... We cannot indefinitely conceal the reality; eventually, the mortal realm and the Extraordinary World will converge and merge, much like the intertwining of the Ethereal and Material Planes."

Bologue whispered, "It is difficult to even conceive the magnitude of disaster and transformation this convergence will precipitate."

"However, the encroaching chaos is undeniably foreseeable," Palmer stated. "Within that chaos, we shall strive with all our might to forge a new order."

Palmer paused, then inquired, "Bologue, do you comprehend why we, the Extraordinary Clan, have consistently operated from the shadows?"

"Why is that?"

"Well... this incident falls under the umbrella of our darker histories. A profound chasm exists between the Condensers and ordinary mortals; to certain individuals, we could be perceived as akin to deities."

Bologue silently concurred with Palmer's assessment. While Condensers of the First and Second Stages exhibit minimal differences from regular humans, those who transcend the Third Stage represent an entirely different order of existence. Bologue firmly believes they have surpassed mere humanity, evolving into a form of humanoid... Etherial beings.

"Consequently, certain factions harbored ambitions to usurp the Night Race, aiming to ascend and claim that mantle for themselves," Palmer explained.

"I am aware of that particular historical episode," Bologue responded, having heard the accounts. "It was the catalyst for the unified consensus among all major forces."

"However, as the demarcation between the mundane and the extraordinary progressively blurs, such a consensus will inevitably lose its significance."

Abruptly, Palmer interjected, "Let us set that aside for now. Focus on completing these assignments; these matters are beyond our purview."

Bologue nodded, resuming his meticulous surveillance of the Great Rift.

By established regulations, Bologue and his colleagues should currently be on mandated leave. However, following the recent incident, the Field Operations Department sustained considerable damage, rendering a significant portion of its field personnel incapacitated. Consequently, only a select few could be deployed.

This situation necessitated Bologue's premature return from his vacation to resume his duties. Fortunately, this period is classified as overtime, entitling him to triple his daily salary rate.

Nevertheless, Bologue finds himself caring little for the monetary compensation.

The peripheries of the Great Rift have been steadily eroding, succumbing to the ravages of conflict. The collapse of structures has led to a subtle but discernible expansion of the Rift itself. Under the relentless glare of the sun, the moss clinging to the cliffs has vanished, yet tenacious weeds have flourished.

Perhaps resilience is an inherent characteristic of all life.

"Let's depart; nothing unusual detected,"

Bologue signaled to Palmer, and the pair began their descent along the fractured bridge. En route, they encountered numerous civilians. Despite the police cordon, an insatiable curiosity compelled people to venture near the Great Rift's edge, to gaze upon the terrifying chasm.

Bologue paid minimal attention to them; after a month of thorough investigation, he could preliminarily confirm that the danger posed by the Great Rift had significantly diminished. The Fog Abyss Fortress had been completely overrun, and the Wandering Crossroad had crumbled under Xilin’s Command—a brutal yet successful purging of the malignant growth by the Order Bureau. Birds now soared freely across the Great Rift; the only remaining concern lay beneath the Rift, in the Abandoned Land, though Bologue was confident the fourth group would handle it competently.

"So, Church can be discharged today?" Bologue inquired suddenly.

"I heard the doctors say so," Palmer replied, sighing. "They mentioned that due to a Secret Energy backlash, Church lost a significant portion of his memory. I'm uncertain if he even remembers us."

"At least he is alive, isn't he?"

Palmer offered a strained smile.

...

The man stood before the looking glass, scrutinizing his own reflection. It marked his first day out of the hospital... The man found himself hazy on the reasons for his hospitalization, although the medical staff had attributed his injuries to some memory impairment. He attempted to recall his past, but could only muster a jumble of fragmented, scattered recollections. He did, however, remember his name: Church Burton. Despite retaining fragments of his past, the chaotic jumble of memories made it challenging to construct a coherent, orderly, or logical life. He felt a strange duality, as if he both was and wasn't Church, a notion that deeply troubled him. Fortunately, an individual named Ivan had provided him with a journal, asserting it would aid his recovery. The man did not immediately delve into the journal; even with his fractured memory, certain things transcended recall, embedding themselves directly into his instincts—his professional instincts. The man surveyed his room; judging by its decoration and arrangement, he appeared to be a generally monotonous and dull individual, with hardly any personal effects, creating a stifling, oppressive atmosphere. From the fragmented memories that surfaced, his daily existence seemed exceedingly mundane, with his sole pastimes involving playing board games with friends and purchasing flowers. Purchasing flowers? The man could not fathom why he would engage in such a hobby. Soon, he discovered evidence of this peculiar interest in a corner of the room—a pot containing an alum root plant, which appeared remarkably well-cared-for, indicating the man had genuinely invested effort in nurturing it. A faint recollection surfaced: this hobby was connected to a woman. The man then opened a drawer, revealing several thick diaries. Their presence seemed to unlock a flood of memories, stitching together the fragmented recollections and rendering many things complete and clear. The man spent a considerable amount of time poring over the diaries, piecing together memory fragments, occupying his hours until a knock at the door interrupted him. Church rose and opened the door.